


Miles To Go

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [22]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Brian Kinney, POV Justin Taylor, Post-Series, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 01:09:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2449751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin is finally forced to come to terms with what happened at Babylon two years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark and Deep

**Author's Note:**

> The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
> But I have promises to keep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep.
> 
> ~ Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”

It happens at the worst possible time, in the worst possible place.

When it happens, when everything comes crashing down, Justin is alone. He's far removed from anyone or anywhere familiar. He never expected it to be this way. He doesn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't this. It really wasn't supposed to be this way. Not like this.

Not today.

*

Today is Michael's birthday and it's a big deal. Brian and Emmett have organised some extravagant celebration consisting of a whole string of exciting events. It all begins at 8pm sharp at Ben and Michael's, with plans to move to Woody's, then Babylon, then... actually, Justin can't remember what comes after that. The plan Brian and Emmett concocted together turned out to be very elaborate. Justin wonders if he's even really welcome; Brian and Emmett insist that yes, of course he is, but Justin's gut keeps telling him no, he's not.

Things have been uneasy between him and Michael ever since he took a step back from _Rage_ to focus on his own work. At first, Michael seemed irrevocably angry about the whole thing and Justin was sure he'd fucked everything up permanently. Then there were a few solid months of Michael trying to convince Justin he'd made a mistake, mostly by needling at Brian. It didn't do any good, of course - Brian was the one who suggested that Justin distance himself from _Rage_ for a while.

Boy, was _that_ a relief - Justin had been tempted to do so for a while, but he had been reluctant to admit it. It was simply all too much, trying to balance everything - it was exhausting in every possible sense, leaving Justin stressed and sending his gimp hand into frequent and persistent spasms. So, with Brian's support, he took a step back. Michael isn't angry anymore, and he isn't pleading with Brian to intervene anymore, but things are still tense at best. Justin doesn't know whether tonight will make any difference, but Brian wants him to be there, so be there he'll be. All that matters right now is that he's in Pittsburgh by 8pm.

Fortunately, there's plenty of time for that. Justin leaves the city just after 10am and drives, drives, drives. Brian has a total hard-on for flying everywhere but Justin is fonder of roadtripping. There's always great stuff to see and new places to stop. Today, he grabs coffee in Hellertown, then lunch in Harrisburg. While he's eating, he maps out a route to Buchanan State Forest. That's where he has to be next.

Justin thinks he remembers visiting once as a kid; he knows Michael visited on more than one occasion, which is valuable information he's sourced from Deb. Flicking through the sketchbook he's been putting together for Michael, Justin reaches the end and eyes the last few pages with interest. They're promisingly blank; he can't wait to fill them. Maybe this will help heal their rift.

As he drives, Justin feasts on bags of candy lying open on the passenger seat. In between mouthfuls, he sings at the top of his lungs, the windows down, the breeze flowing warmly through the car. The hours it takes to reach the forest pass like mere milliseconds. Once he's there, he turns the radio off and stops singing. Tall, lush trees surround the road, towering upwards towards the strip of blue sky that's only just visible. Justin journeys through the forest, delving deeper until he finds a quiet, secluded road where he can park the car. 

He follows a trail for a little while until he finds a spot that feels right. It takes some time, but that's okay. It's pleasing, walking through all this lush forest, with the forest floor crunching underneath his feet and the breeze brushing his face. Justin is reminded of that poem his mother loves so much: _The woods are lovely, dark, and deep._ Maybe he'll add that to the sketchbook. It's certainly fitting. Admiring the lovely, dark depths of this forest, Justin continues his search. He hunts for the right spot where he'll be able to stop and set up shop to sketch.

The right spot ends up being next to a mossy log, where he can hear a creek rushing not too far away, and where the light is just right. What was it Deb said about this place?  _It was Michael's favourite! We'd come camping here and he'd spend all day running around the woods, playing pretend, finding places to explore and hide. Vic and I could never keep up._ She poured her heart out over the phone, recalling memory after memory after memory. Michael learning to skip pebbles in the creeks. Michael searching desperately for trees to climb (although Deb would never let him;  _what, like I was going to let him fall and snap his neck? Not fucking likely!)_. Michael curling up by the campfire every night with cocoa and comic books.

Justin imagines what that must have been like and translates it onto the blank pages in front of him. By the time he's finished, the light is fading and the temperature has dropped considerably. He checks his watch; it's almost 4pm - time to get back on the road. He returns to the car, packs up his art materials, texts Brian _(_ _won't be long now, love you),_ and starts the engine.

That's when it happens.

That's when it all goes to shit.

All it is, really, is the engine backfiring. Justin realises that about ten minutes after the fact. He should have known - the guy at the car hire place seemed seedy as shit, so of course the car was destined to fuck up somehow. But none of this registers at first. At first, all Justin hears is an explosion.

There's a deafening  _bang._ The car rattles violently. It seems to go on forever. Suddenly, Justin isn't in the forest anymore. He's back at Babylon, blinded by a flash of light, being hurtled backwards by some unknown, white-hot, brutal force.

And then he's nowhere. Nowhere at all.

Everything goes black. All he can feel is his throat constricting and his breath struggling to come in and out. That's all there is for  _ten fucking minutes._ He realises that's how much time has passed when he feels wetness on his face and panics, thinking it must be blood, and opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is the digital clock on the car's dashboard. Ten minutes have passed. _  
_

He hasn't had a panic attack that bad in  _years._ Wait, is he bleeding? Justin grabs the rear-view mirror, tugs it towards him, and stares at his face. There's no blood, only tears. There are tears pouring down his face.

As he caves against the steering wheel and weeps, he's consumed by one thought:  _finally._

Finally, finally,  _finally_ it has happened. He has been waiting for two years for this moment. Since that bomb went off at Babylon, Justin has been waiting for it to really register. He has spent the past two years in stasis, or denial, or limbo, or _whatever,_ waiting desperately for reality to kick in. Now it has. Now it has, and it fucking hurts.

The morning after _it_ happened, Justin woke up, got out of bed, and went about his day as usual. The only difference was the ten minutes he spent staring at himself in the mirror. He found himself caught, utterly transfixed, staring at himself until he started to look like a stranger. That's what it felt like, too - like he was a stranger in his own skin. 

Where were the tears? Why wasn't he terrified? What was wrong with him? He stared at his reflection, searching and searching, but there was nothing to be found. Sure, there were scratches. There was still some dirt and ash smeared around his temple and smudged around his collarbone. His back hurt a little and his elbows were still bruised from falling. But that was it. There was nothing else. As he turned away from the mirror, he thought to himself:  _I am cool, calm, and collected. And I am probably incredibly fucked up._

The facts are these: A bomb went off at Babylon. Someone planted a bomb there. Someone wanted him and everyone like him dead. And they actually succeeded! People died that night.  _People died that night._

After it happened, Justin had trouble thinking about it in anything other than abstract terms. There was a bomb. It went off. People died. He lived. As far as processing what happened, that was about the best he could do. But today, reality sinks in. It sinks in like a knife, slicing him open and reaching deep inside where it can really do some damage. 

The reality is this:

There was noise, then there was light, then there was force. Justin remembers being flung backwards, hurtling through thin air, then hitting the ground hard. His elbows and lower back took the brunt of the fall. As pain daggered through him, he lay there, staring  upwards into nothingness as the world came crashing down. At first, the pain was all-consuming, but this soon gave way to other things: the stench of smoke pouring thickly through the ruins; the terrified screams of the living; the tortured cries of those soon to be dead.

Justin listened to several people die that night.

When he finally picked himself up off the ground, he stumbled past corpses lying mangled in the wreckage. He stopped each time, grabbing their wrists to check their pulse. It was never there. One of them - one of the bodies, one of the deceased - was staring at him with lifeless eyes. As he stared back, someone nearby started screaming:  _no, no, no, please no, please no, please, please, please, no!_ Justin tried to follow the sound of the cries but it was hopeless: too many people were screaming. Most were screaming for help, some were screaming as they searched for their friends and loved ones, and several were screaming simply for the fucking sake of it. 

Then came the sirens, the bouncing beams of flashlights, the confident commands of emergency workers. Justin watched as the club evacuated, hanging back to avoid being manhandled out by the firemen. He couldn't leave yet. Where was his mom? Emmett? Ted? Michael? Where... where... where... as he stumbled over a pile of rubble hiding yet another body, Justin's heart lurched into his throat. What if they hadn't made it? What if they were lying somewhere, bruised and bloodied? Blown to bits?

Terrified, he began to search, even though such a task was clearly impossible. Babylon was pitch black and obscured by smoke. It had been transformed into a grotesque labyrinth of rubble and... and bodies. Bodies, everywhere. Bodies singed and separated. Bodies that had suffered. Frightened, disoriented, and sick to his stomach, Justin stumbled in what he thought might be the right direction. That's when he heard it.

_Justin!_

Brian. Brian was there. Brian was looking for him. Justin gathered himself as best he could and gravitated towards the sound of Brian calling his name. And then, there he was. Brian was there, Brian was saving him, and nothing else mattered.

Reality sticks the knife in then twists hard. Justin tries to stop himself from crying but it's impossible. Two years worth of tears cascade from him, unstoppable. Justin only barely manages to reach for his phone and call Brian. He can hear the panic in Brian's voice and hates himself for doing this, but it's too late to take it back. So he cries down the phone, only slightly aware of Brian's responses:  _Stay where you are. Stay calm. I'll be there. I'll be there soon._

Then the phone goes dead. There's no air in the car. Justin wrenches the door open and staggers out. He slams the door shut and caves against it, sliding down until he's slumped on the ground with his back just barely propped up. He draws his knees to his chest and sobs. 

It was so easy to forget. It was so fucking easy. One minute the bomb went off, the next minute Brian was saying 'I love you', and then he was proposing. Then they were engaged. Then they weren't. Then he was in New York. Then Brian was, too. Since then, it's been non-stop for both of them. New York never slows down, so neither can they. For Justin, it's been art, art, art, art, art... and then some. It's his driving force, his obsession, his  _raison d'être._

It's an escape. All of this has been, in a way. He has let himself get swept up in Brian, in New York, in his art, all whilst ignoring other things. Like the fact that someone planted a bomb at Babylon with the intention to slaughter innocent people. Like how fucking terrifying that night was. Like how much it damaged him to come that close to death for a second time. Like how much it damaged Brian and everyone else they know. Like how fucking unfair it was on all of them to endure that much suffering.

Curled up on the ground, alone on this secluded road, Justin cries endlessly. He tells himself to stop, he tries to pull himself together, but it's no good. Something has broken inside of him. How the fuck is he going to fix it this time? Does he even deserve to be fixed? How fucked up does a person have to be to wait  _two goddamned years_ to process such a traumatic event?  _Very fucked up,_ Justin thinks. He's pretty sure that's the answer.

The light dims to darkness. Justin still can't stop crying. The temperature dips lower. Justin continues to cry. Soon it's cold and dark and silent, all except for his pitiful sobbing.

That's all there is until, finally, an engine rumbles nearby and headlights wash over him. The engine abruptly cuts. He hears Brian call his name desperately. Justin climbs to his feet and runs full pelt towards Brian. He tells himself it will be better once he's in Brian's arms. That will stop the tears. _  
_

It's not better. The tears don't stop. As Brian embraces him, Justin finds that he's crying even harder. Brian's arms tighten around him. Justin clings to him and weeps uncontrollably.

After two years of waiting, he's finally face-to-face with reality. It breathes its sour scent all over him. Justin chokes on it. The woods close in around them, just like the walls did at Babylon, as they caved and crumbled. He can hear it now - all that destruction. He can smell the smoke and sweat and decay. He can see those dead eyes staring emptily into his. There's screaming in his head - ear-splitting, heart-stopping, soul-destroying screaming. It won't stop.

It won't stop.

_It won't fucking stop._


	2. Promises to Keep

"Brian? Brian, I... I need you. I'm so scared. It's so bad, Bri, I don't know what to do."

And just like that, Brian's day goes from good to awful. His heart sinks as he listens to Justin weeping and hyperventilating down the phone. There's something about the car backfiring, then something about Babylon, and then just endless gasping and sobbing. Brian tries to talk Justin down, but all of his attempts fall flat. This is bad. This is really fucking bad.

"What's going on?" Ted asks, staring open-mouthed at Brian from the doorway. Brian can only imagine how he must look and sound right now; ordinarily, he'd tell Ted to get the fuck out of his office but he's too preoccupied with getting Justin to explain where he is.

Finally, Justin spits out the name of the road he's on. Brian takes a deep breath and orders, "Stay where you are. Stay calm. I'll be there. I'll be there soon."

"Okay," Justin says breathlessly, and then the line goes dead. Brian exhales raggedly and starts collecting his things.

"Brian," Ted calls, "What's the matter? What's happening?"

It takes Brian a good few seconds to process those questions. He wants to scream at Ted to shut the fuck up and fuck off, but he can't find his keys. Where the fuck are his keys? How is he going to get to Justin without his goddamned keys?

"I have to go," Brian announces distantly. "You need to take over from here."

He ignores the way Ted's jaw drops and grabs his briefcase. Thank fuck - _there_ are his keys, hidden in one of the compartments. Okay, that's something. He can get to Justin now. What he'll do when he gets there, he has no idea, but that's a separate issue.

In bewilderment, Ted demands, "Where are you going?!"

Brian ignores that, too. All he can think of is Justin, all alone, falling apart. Panicking increasingly, Brian only just manages to pull on his jacket.

"Are you going to be back in time for Michael's party?"

Fuck, will the questions ever stop coming? Brian regrets not taking a moment to tell Ted to shut the fuck up - it might have helped. With a quick glance at the clock and a few speedy calculations, Brian realises that Michael's party is not going to eventuate as planned. He avoids Ted's gaze as he makes his way out the door. "No."

"No?! What do you mean 'no'?"

"I don't have time for this!"

"What am I supposed to tell Michael?"

This interrogation is going nowhere and it's only proving distracting. Brian shrugs at Ted and imparts abruptly, "Tell him I had to go."

"I think he's going to want to hear that you're sorry!"

"Fine, tell him that," Brian says, so distracted he barely registers what he's saying. He thinks he hears Ted say something else, but there's no time to stop and find out what.

The drive to Buchanan State Forest takes three hours.  _Three fucking hours._ Every time Brian hits a red light or a patch of traffic, he curses so violently that his throat grows sore from all the yelling. By the time he reaches the road leading to the one where he hopes he'll find Justin, Brian is rigid with tension and seething to himself. Three hours.  _Three fucking hours._ Justin has been alone for three whole hours.

When he finds Justin, it's even worse than he thought it would be. Almost as soon as Brian is out of the car, Justin is hurtling into his arms. He's crying more intensely than Brian had realised was humanly possible. Fear slinks through Brian insidiously. He holds onto Justin tightly, but that's it - that's all he can think to do. He has never seen Justin this distressed. He has never seen  _anyone_ this distressed. 

As Justin sags in his arms, Brian tries to compose himself. He's on the verge of tears himself but refuses to succumb to the urge to cry. Livid, he berates himself: _Hold it together or fucking else. Justin needs you._ Although it's hard to remain focused on anything other than Justin, Brian tries to make sense of what has happened. Bit by bit, he pieces together what little information he has: the car backfired. Justin had a flashback to Babylon which triggered a panic attack. Justin is now in the midst of a massive fucking breakdown. 

These are the main details, but as they stand there embracing, Brian becomes aware of the finer details: how shallow Justin's breathing is. How cold his skin feels. And, as Brian pulls out of the hug to look at him, he notices how glazed Justin's expression is. He's not all there. This is bad. This is really fucking bad.

Brian only just manages to keep himself from choking on his fear. He runs his hands up and down Justin's arms, gradually returning warmth to his icy flesh. Very gently, Brian says, "Come and get in the car where it's warm."

Brian helps Justin into the passenger side then walks around to the driver's side. By the time he's sliding into his seat, Justin is curled over himself, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking and weeping. Brian places a hand on Justin's back, cringing at the realisation of how forcefully the sobs are coming.  He's bordering on hysteria.

"Justin," he says, running his hand in circles between Justin's shoulder-blades. Brian struggles with what to say next. He's not equipped for this. He's probably the worst person possible to have around in a situation like this. Feeling utterly useless, he urges, "Breathe."

Justin complies, but only barely. After shakily sucking in one scarily weak breath, he returns to crying, perhaps even harder than before.

Nothing seems to help - Brian runs through every last idea in his arsenal to absolutely no avail. Finally, he's reduced to begging. Desperately, he pleads, "Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need."

"I need it to stop," Justin cries, his voice rough and weary. "I can't get it to stop. Make it stop."

Brian glances into the backseat at his duffel bag and impulsively announces, "I have sleeping pills."

Justin sits up and stares at him, tears streaming down his face. Brian worries for a moment that what he's said is all wrong and incredibly messed up. Jesus, how long have they been together now? Only about a trillion fucking years, and the best he can offer his anguished partner is to medicate him. For every moment of silence (apart from Justin's ceaseless crying), Brian's self-loathing inches a degree higher.

At long last, Justin sighs and says strenuously, " _Yes._ Yes, please, I can't take this anymore." _  
_

Well, that's something. Feeling slightly less terrible, Brian reaches into the backseat and rifles through his duffel bag until he finds the bottle of pills. He hands it to Justin and tells him gently to check the label and check it twice, since the last thing they need right now is to set off Justin's allergies. As soon as Justin has given the pills the all-clear, Brian hands him a bottle of water. 

"Take two," he advises. "That should knock you right out."

"Thanks," Justin says, palming two of the pills. He knocks them back and chases them with a gulp of water.

As Justin tilts his seat right back, Brian takes the pills and the water and stows them away. He watches with concern as Justin stares blankly into space. "Sunshine?"

Justin's response is decidedly un-sunny. Grimacing, he croaks, "Yeah?"

"It's going to be okay."

What a fucking cliché. The truth is, Brian has no idea whether or not it's going to be okay. As he looks at Justin's pale, tear-streaked face, and his swollen, red-rimmed eyes, he's tempted to believe nothing will ever be okay ever again. But this is no time for bitter bouts of cynicism. Justin has always been so persistently optimistic; cynicism just won't do. Brian tries to recreate the sense of shining optimism that Justin almost always manages to convey. He wipes away Justin's tears, kisses his shoulder, and says again, "Everything's going to be okay."

Justin nods and reaches for Brian's hand. Brian offers it gladly, comforted when Justin's fingers lace through his, squeezing affectionately. He squeezes back, then waits. It's not long until Justin's grasp on his hand weakens and his breathing grows calmer and steadier. Once he's sure Justin is fast asleep, Brian takes off his jacket and drapes it over Justin carefully. A knot of anxiety twists inside his chest; Brian takes a breath and thinks,  _it's going to be okay._

But it's utterly useless. As little as he believed it when he said it to Justin, he believes it even less when he's saying it to himself.

*

Once the tow truck has arrived to collect Justin's hired car, Brian takes a few minutes to decide what to do next. He leans against a tree trunk and lights up, infinitely grateful for the comfort the cigarette provides. As he smokes, he keeps a watchful eye on Justin, who is in the midst of deep, drug-induced slumber.

Pittsburgh is only a couple of hours away. New York is at least five, maybe closer to six. Brian is distantly aware of several good reasons to return to Pittsburgh: it's a shorter trip, there are reinforcements there (namely Daphne, Jennifer, and Deb, three people who are far better equipped to deal with an emotionally fragile Justin), and maybe he'll end up pissing Michael off a little less than he would if they were to return to New York tonight.

But none of those reasons appeal to him in the slightest. Brian wants to go home. He wants to curl up with Justin in their bed, not the guest bed at Jennifer's. He also suspects that Justin won't care for 'reinforcements' at this present moment. Justin has always been private about his trauma; very few people know the full story, and even fewer know how to handle Justin when he's struggling.

Plus, this isn't 'struggling'. This isn't mere emotional fragility. Whatever has surfaced today is clearly far, far worse than that. Although Justin is sleeping peacefully now, it wasn't even an hour ago that he was distraught and terrified. While Daphne, Jennifer, and Deb would normally prove helpful, Brian isn't sure they'd be welcome right now. He suspects Justin will want this kept between the two of them.

 _Emotional annihilation,_ he thinks, closing his eyes and sighing heavily. _That's much more fitting._

And even though Justin is the one experiencing it, Brian feels like he's on the cusp of it himself. He has only felt fear like this on two other occasions: watching that psycho Hobbs swing the bat and all the horrors that followed, and searching for Justin in what little remained of Babylon. It's the kind of fear that crawls under your skin, seeps into your bloodstream, and settles in your bones until it has consumed you, all of you, and it controls you. It's poisonous and soul-destroying. It's also not fucking fair. Brian remembers when he was small, when he lived in fear almost every goddamned day, terrified of his brute of a father. He remembers all the lonely nights he spent promising himself that one day he would escape that hellish existence and never feel fear like that again.

He may have escaped, but now he's trapped in a different hell where the fear is more intense than he'd thought was possible.

He extinguishes his cigarette carefully, tosses it in a nearby bin, and then returns to the car. Still undecided, Brian turns on the headlights, pausing to watch the woods illuminate before him. The vividness of the beams reveals the lush greenery which had been hidden by nightfall. Brian stares until his vision blurs, struck by how unfamiliar everything is. They're in the middle of goddamned nowhere and caught up in something he doesn't know how to navigate. Seeking out comfort, Brian leans down and kisses Justin's forehead. 

Fuck it - they're going back to New York. Pittsburgh will have to wait. Brian is aching to return to what is known - their bed, in their apartment, in their city. Determined, he starts the engine and begins the long journey home. Since Justin is fast asleep and lost to the world, Brian allows his tears to fall, if only for a little while.

*

After helping a drowsy Justin out of the car, Brian gently guides him upstairs to their apartment. As he unlocks the door, he surreptitiously surveys Justin, noting how filthy his clothes are, and how utterly wrung out he looks. Brian takes Justin's hand and leads him gently into their bedroom, where he sets down their bags, then pushes Justin in the direction of the bathroom.

Justin sinks down onto the edge of the bathtub, sitting there limply as Brian turns on the shower. As soon as the water hits the right temperature, Brian starts to undress. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the Justin is doing the same, albeit much more weakly. Brian tries to tell himself it's just the sleeping pills wearing off, but that's such bullshit. The reality is that Justin is a wreck - physically, emotionally, and mentally. _Three for three,_ Brian thinks, his stomach sinking. Even on his best days, he's hardly capable of dealing with one of those. What the fuck is he meant to do with three?

All he can think of is to get Justin in the shower. That's easy. Sure, it's scarcely reminiscent of a solution, but at least he can handle it. Brian holds out his hand to Justin, who quickly grabs it. So far, so good. Brian pulls Justin into the shower, letting him have the lion's share of the water. He hopes this will help. He would pray, but he doesn't really believe in that, and he doesn't want to think that things are quite that dire. 

Steam fills the shower quickly, fogging up the glass and spreading a flush over Justin's pallid skin. Brian grabs the soap and smooths it over Justin's shoulders until it forms a thick lather. Setting the soap aside, he presses both of his hands to Justin's shoulders and massages gently. Justin moans softly, gripping the glass wall with one hand and leaning into Brian's touch. Encouraged, Brian continues, massaging, lathering, massaging, lathering, working hard to assuage the tension Justin seems to be riddled with.

Slowly but surely, the tension melts away. Not only that; he can feel Justin returning to him. The vacant expression leaves his face and life returns to his eyes. Brian is gliding his hands up and down Justin's thighs when Justin places a hand on his shoulder and whispers, "Bri?"

"Yeah?" He looks up, meeting Justin's imploring gaze. He knows instantly what Justin needs. Brian stands up, backs Justin up against the glass, and kisses him passionately.

To his great relief, Justin is immediately responsive. He moans, combs his fingers through Brian's hair, and kisses back twice as hard. Thank god. This, Brian knows by heart. This is one need that he can easily meet. 

He lets Justin set the pace. It's gentler than it has been for a very long while and quiet, too. Justin keeps his face buried against Brian's neck. Brian can't be sure whether it's water from the shower or Justin's tears that he can feel trickling down his chest, and he doesn't dare ask or try to find out. His heart aching, he gives Justin what he needs, resigning himself to the miserable fact that this may be the best he can do.

*

Convincing Justin to eat something is Brian's next victory. Small though it may be, it's pleasing to see Justin wolfing down his plate of heated leftovers. Brian stretches out next to him in bed and watches him like a hawk, satisfied only when the plate is clean. Even then, the satisfaction he feels is only slight. It's utterly dwarfed by the sense of dread that pervades Brian. They're not out of the woods yet - far from it, in fact - and he still has no idea what the fuck he should be doing.

"That was good," Justin says, his voice scraping. He sets the plate on the nightstand and wriggles down, lying on his back with his hands folded together on his chest. Staring up at the ceiling, he murmurs, "I'm sorry about Michael's birthday."

"Don't be," Brian urges, shifting onto his side. He brushes a hand over Justin's arm. "It's not a big deal."

Justin winces. "Michael's going to hate me."

"It's a birthday." Brian shrugs. "One will come around again soon enough."

"He already hates me enough for dragging you to New York."

"You didn't drag me here."

"He thinks I did," Justin mutters, his face clouding unhappily. "And then there's _Rage_ \- he hates that I won't commit to it anymore. It's not like I didn't love working on it, but I-"

"The stress. Your hand. I _know_. Sunshine, you don't have to explain yourself to me. You made the right call." Brian squeezes Justin's forearm. "Stop worrying about that."

"It's better than the other shit that's on my mind."

He wonders what Justin might mean by that. Okay, yes, it's obvious enough that Babylon is on his mind, but Brian is clueless as to what the specifics are. They've spoken about it a few times - on the anniversaries, and after they've had nightmares - but those conversations have been fleeting and have only scraped the surface of what happened that night. Brian remembers finding Justin in the thick of all that terrifying chaos and wonders:  _where had he been? What did he see? What's plaguing him right now?_

He wants to ask, but he doesn't want to intrude. He doesn't want to trigger another frightening crying jag. He doesn't want to set something off that he's incapable of fixing. But his mind is crowded with ugly images: death and decay, destruction and despair. They play in a loop, over and over, until his head hurts.

After going to war with himself for some minutes, Brian resolves to ask, but ask gently. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I wouldn't even know where to start," Justin admits with a slight shrug. "I didn't see this coming."

 _Neither did I,_ thinks Brian, sick with guilt. Shouldn't he have seen this coming?

After a spell of pensive silence, Justin adds, "I mean, I had hoped eventually I would start acting like a normal human being-"

Confused, Brian interjects, "What do you mean?"

Justin turns onto his side and faces Brian with a sad smile. "I know you thought I was capable of getting through this - and, believe me, I really hate to let you down - but I didn't 'get through' what happened. I shut down. I ignored it. I let myself get distracted and I tried to forget it. That's not coping... it's the exact opposite, in fact, and it's cowardly, and deceitful, and weak."

Hearing Justin berate himself like that leaves Brian horror-stricken. Perhaps too roughly, he exclaims, "You're not any of those things."

Justin starts slightly at his loud tone. Brian touches his arm comfortingly and softens his tone. "Quit being so hard on yourself. Cowardly, deceitful, weak? That's not you. You are, by far, the strongest, bravest person I know."

"Right, because strong, brave people spend hours weeping helplessly on the side of the road." Justin groans and covers his face with his hands. "You must think I'm pathetic."

"Actually," Brian begins to say, as Justin sighs and removes his hands from his face. With a tight smile, he confesses, "I was thinking I was."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Trying to ignore the abundant sense of shame mounting within him, Brian says, "I mean, I love you and I want to help you through this, but I feel completely out of my depth right now."

After confessing this, he nervously meets Justin's gaze. Immediately, his anxiety is assuaged. Justin smiles tenderly and says assuredly, "All I need is for you to be here. That's all."

Well, that doesn't sound so difficult. Brian returns Justin's smile. "I can do that."

"I know you can." Justin's smile shifts into something stiff and uneasy. "I also need you to be okay with the fact that..."

He sighs, then admits wearily, "That I need to go back to therapy for a while."

Brian nods. "Whatever you need."

Justin looks more than a little surprised at that. Reaching out to touch his arm, Brian adds, "Just because I don't believe in it for me, that doesn't mean I won't support you. If you want to go, then go. I promise you I'm behind you one hundred percent. And if there's anything else you need, you let me know."

After a beat, Justin quietly requests, "I need you to hold me."

Wordlessly, Brian draws him into a snug embrace. Justin sighs contentedly. "We're getting better at this."

"At what?"

"This whole communication thing," he replies, a hint of laughter in his voice.

"Mmmm," Brian agrees, kissing Justin's forehead. "Try and get some more sleep, okay?"

"Okay."

*

Brian's phone starts ringing the next morning, way too early and  _way_ too fucking loud. Without looking at it, he silences the call and collapses back into bed. Next to him, Justin murmurs sleepily and burrows closer. Brian hugs him close, breathes in deep, and starts drifting off back to sleep... until his phone rings again. He grabs it and barks into it,  _"What?!"_

"You spineless, selfish, shitty excuse for a human being."

It's Melanie. She sounds pissed. Why, Brian has no idea. He eases away from Justin, slips out of bed, and heads towards the kitchen. It'll be easier to tell her to fuck off there, where Justin won't be disturbed.

As he makes his way down the hall, Mel continues her furious rant.

"You utterly cowardly piece of crap. I can't believe how stupid I've been!  _He's changed,_ I thought.  _Things are different now,_ I told myself. How fucking delusional was I?! Do you hear this sound, Brian?"

As he steps into the kitchen, he snaps, "What, the sound of you bitching?"

"The sound of Gus crying his eyes out," she snarls. Suddenly, she's silent and all he can hear is the sound of Gus sobbing faintly.

 _Fuck._ Gus! He was supposed to see Gus this morning. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,  _fuck._

"You are such a fucking asshole," Mel snaps, back on the line and angrier than ever. "How dare you do this to my son?"

 _"Your_ son?!" Brian scoffs.  _"Your son?!"_

"He's more mine than he is yours!"

He's about to tear her to shreds when Lindsay's voice comes on the line. She's much calmer, which is a relief, but Brian can hear tension lacing her every word. "That's enough. Gus can hear the two of you! You're only making matters worse."

Newly outraged, Brian exclaims, "Am I on fucking speaker phone?"

Seemingly ignoring this question, Lindsay demands, "Brian,  _where are you?"_

"You're supposed to be here in Pittsburgh," Mel says icily. "You said you'd be at Jen's and that you'd be taking Gus at nine. Well, we're here, it's half nine, and Gus is fucking devastated that he's been forgotten."

The sense of guilt that hits Brian leaves him reeling. It then knocks him flat when Mel spits, "You're such an asshole. I knew this whole father-of-the-year act was bullshit."

"Mel," Lindsay warns. "That's enough. Brian, what happened? Where are you?"

"I'm in New York."

"Oh, fuck you!"

_"Mel!"_

Brian is impressed; he's never heard Lindsay speak so commandingly. Her forceful tone shuts Mel right up. Unfortunately, Lindsay then turns the tone on him. "Why are you in New York when Gus expected you to be here?"

He doesn't know what to say to that. He can't out Justin. He  _won't_ out Justin. Brian steels himself, resigning himself to being known as the world's shittiest father. A lie about an advertising emergency is on the tip of his tongue, when his phone is abruptly snatched out of his hand.

Before Brian can stop him, Justin clicks the button for speaker phone and announces, "It was my fault."

"No it wasn't," Brian snaps, making a grab for the phone, which Justin dodges effortlessly. He mouths  _don't_ at Justin, but Justin ignores him.

"Justin, honey, what do you mean?"

Of fucking course. He's an asshole who isn't allowed to get a word in edgewise, but Justin gets called 'honey' and is afforded the chance to explain himself. Melanie and her fucking favouritism.

Justin glances at Brian very briefly, then closes his eyes and draws in a breath. "When I was driving to Pittsburgh yesterday, the car backfired. I had a flashback to Babylon. I had a really bad panic attack and called Brian for help. He's been distracted with helping me."

There's dead silence on the other end of the line. Brian fills it by saying, "It's not your fault."

Justin nods. He clears his throat and admits, "It was more than a panic attack, to be honest. I've just called my old therapist from Pittsburgh and she's arranged for an emergency appointment with one of her colleagues who has a practice here."

Brian is stunned into silence. He hadn't expected Justin to come clean like this - well, maybe to Daphne or Jennifer, but not to the munchers. He thinks maybe he should point out to Justin that a cowardly person wouldn't be capable of doing what he's just done, but then Lindsay speaks up. Her voice trembling, she asks, "Justin, baby, are you okay?"

 _Baby._ It makes Justin flinch. Brian feels a slight sting of resentment towards Lindsay for speaking so carelessly. If there's one thing Justin doesn't need right now, it's to be fucking infantilised. 

"I have to go," Justin says evasively. He hands the phone back then kisses Brian's cheek. "It's way uptown, I might not be back for a while. I'll text you, okay?"

"Okay," Brian responds, at a loss as to what else to say. He watches helplessly as Justin leaves.

Once the front door has clicked shut, he returns his attention to the call. "Put Gus on the fucking phone right now. I want to tell him I'm sorry."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Mel says quietly.

Brian wants to tear her fucking head off. How fucking dare she?! He's about to spit something vicious at her, but then she surprises him.

Very gently, she suggests, "Why don't you tell him in person?"

*

Three last-minute tickets to New York aren't cheap, but Brian can't fork over the money soon enough. He needs to see Gus and make things right.

He may not know how to fix Justin, but he has a good idea of how to fix things with Gus. As he waits for them to arrive, Brian paces the apartment, rehearsing his apology. In doing so, he manages to convince himself he's not the world's shittiest dad. That was his father, who hurt him endlessly and intentionally, and who never fucking apologised - not even once. Thinking about Jack throws Brian's determination into overdrive - he's going to make things right with Gus and then make sure he never fucks up this badly again.

Within a matter of hours, he's waiting outside and watching their cab pull around the corner. Gus has his hands and face pressed up against the window; he breaks into a huge grin when he sees Brian. Well, that's something. His kid doesn't seem to hate him... at least, not completely.

The cab has barely stopped when Gus comes flying out the door. He flings himself into Brian's waiting arms and yells, "Daddy, you're here!"

"I'm here," Brian says, squeezing Gus with all his might. "I'm so happy to see you, Sonny Boy."

With his tiny face smooshed against Brian's chest, Gus murmurs, "I love you."

"I love you, too," Brian whispers, ignoring Lindsay and Melanie's invasive stares. He places his hands on Gus' shoulders and draws back, holding his son at arm's length. Gus watches him with big, blue eyes, a small smile on his face. "You know I'm sorry about this morning, right? I feel terrible, kiddo. I didn't mean for that to happen."

"It's okay," Gus says, smiling at him adoringly. "Don't feel bad, Daddy."

"But I do feel bad," Brian says softly. "I hate that I let you down. I promise I will never let anything like that happen ever again. I'm so sorry."

His smile brightening, Gus enthuses, "It's  _okay._ I understand."

"So you forgive me?"

He throws his arms around Brian's neck and says happily, "I forgive you and I love you, and I love you and forgive you, times infinity."

Heaving a sigh of relief, Brian wraps Gus up in a bear hug. "You're the best, you know that?"

Gus laughs and whoops, then spins around to grin at Melanie and Lindsay. "Did you hear that?  _I'm_ the best. Not J.R.!"

"Gus," Lindsay warns sternly. "It's not a competition."

Gus rolls his eyes and turns back to Brian. He steps in close and whispers in Brian's ear, "Is Jus okay? Moms said he was sad."

Forcing himself to adopt a reassuring smile, Brian searches for a good way to explain it to Gus. Finally, he settles on something honest yet simple enough that he won't scar the poor kid. "He's had a rough couple of days."

Gus purses his lips thoughtfully. With a hopeful expression, he asks, "Can I help you cheer him up?"

"Of course," Brian says, smiling. "I think he'd love that. I know I'd love it." _  
_

Gus beams and kisses both of Brian's cheeks. Just as Brian thinks he's in the clear, Gus grabs his hand and yanks him in Melanie's direction. "It's time for you and Mommy to make up."

Lindsay nods in agreement.

"We are family and we are not supposed to fight," Gus says, officiously reciting words he's undoubtedly heard from the munchers a million times. He shoots a determined look at Brian, then at Mel, then commands, "Kiss and make up."

To her credit, Mel steps towards him and touches his arm lightly. "I'm sorry, Brian. I shouldn't have been so hard on you."

He shrugs and admits, "I'm sorry I wasn't where I should have been."

"You were exactly where you should have been," she responds softly, concern for Justin underpinning every word. Brian smiles at her appreciatively.

But apparently, this isn't good enough for Gus. Grouchily, he grumbles, "I said _kiss_ and make up!"

Lindsay, who is smirking insufferably at them, confirms, "He said _kiss_ and make up."

"I think that's going a bit far," Mel mutters, raising an eyebrow at Brian. He nods slightly in agreement. Still, Gus and Lindsay are watching them stubbornly - there's no way out. Very reluctantly, Mel leans in and kisses his cheek. Brian returns it quickly.

"Once more, with feeling," Lindsay teases. Brian is tempted to flip her off.

Mel seems to be entertaining similar thoughts, if the scowl she's directing at Lindsay is anything to go by. Tersely, she says, "Gus, let's go upstairs. I'll help you unpack."

Brian hands her the keys and watches as Gus bolts into the building. Mel follows quickly with the luggage in hand. This leaves Brian standing with Lindsay, who is staring at him with intense concern. "How's Justin?

"I have no idea," Brian admits, swallowing. He stares down the street towards the subway entrance, willing Justin to appear. "He's been gone since this morning."

"He'll be okay," Lindsay says soothingly. She opens her arms and lets Brian pool into them, then hugs him tenderly. "He's a survivor. And he's got you."

"How fortunate," Brian drawls. "Who better to care for him than someone as damaged and emotionally deficient as myself?"

Sighing, Lindsay gives him a little shake. "Cut the crap, Kinney. I'm sure you're doing more for him than you realise. What matters most is that you love him and he loves you. You'll get through this together."

Brian hugs her closer and kisses her temple. Staring past her down the street, he watches, wishing once more that Justin would show up. He tries to keep the doubt that's haunting him out of his voice, but his response is uneven nonetheless: "I hope so."


	3. Before I Sleep

"So, Justin... you used to see Ann?"

 _What a fantastic start to the session,_ Justin thinks, cringing inwardly. He nods mutely and forces a smile at his new therapist, Jo. She smiles back and scribbles something on the pad in front of her. He looks away, out the window that overlooks the park, and tries not to think of what she might have just written.

Justin never liked Ann very much. There was never anything much to like. She was probably the same age as his mother and even more maternal - and  _boy,_ did she play that card excessively. It started to bother him during the second or third session, and then escalated from there to downright infuriating. Like he needed a second mother - one was more than enough. 

In fact, it was his mother that forced him to see Ann. He couldn't avoid it at first, what with being imprisoned in the hospital for most of his recovery after the bashing. Justin thought there might be some reprieve from the tedious therapy sessions when he returned home, but his mother had different ideas. She insisted he continue to see Ann, pressuring him and guilt-tripping him until he gave in. Ultimately, it was easier to cave and slink off to the sessions with his tail between his legs, than continue fighting with his mother and making her cry.  


"What did you think of Ann?" Jo asks, tapping her pen against the page idly. It's something familiar, but Justin can't quite place the tune.

"She was nice," he supplies dutifully. 

Jo raises her eyebrows. "She was, was she?"

Justin shrugs. "She cared about me."

"I didn't realise those things were one and the same," Jo says, smiling as she writes something else down.

"I guess they're not," Justin concedes, glancing around the room. Ann's office was so different to this. It felt every bit like it was tucked away in the middle of a hospital psych ward: clinical and cold, but trying ever so hard not to be. She had plants in every corner and crocheted cushions dotted over the drab furniture. Still, it was stained with that hospital smell and flooded with harsh fluorescent light, just like the corridors and rooms that had imprisoned him since the bashing.

Jo's office is a really good kind of different. It's wall-to-wall bookshelves which are filled with books of every sort - not just textbooks, which was all Ann had on display. One of the shelves is full of photos, presumably of patients, and another is lined with framed prints. It's that shelf that captures his attention; he loses himself for a moment, studying the prints, identifying the artists, trying to recall details he learnt by heart at PIFA like the era, the medium, their inspiration.

He's quizzing himself on which year the Dali print hails from when Jo asks gently, "So why tell me she was nice? I know she wasn't."

That catches him off-guard. He frowns at her, confused, and she smiles again and says, "Ann was one of my mentors when I was still a student. She helped me a great deal... she still does. You're not the first she's sent my way. She does care, but she's not what I would call 'nice'. She tries-"

"-to be," Justin finishes, agreeing whole-heartedly. Ann did try to be nice, but it always felt false. It set him on edge, sitting through sessions with her and hearing fabricated warmth in her voice, or seeing her smile and realising it never quite reached her eyes. It was an act, her niceness, and he hated it. "She's good at it, I guess. It fooled my mom. I could never buy it, though."

Jo resumes tapping her pen against the page. "You seem smarter than that."

"I'm more jaded than that," Justin corrects, laughing humorlessly. "I had a lot of trouble trusting people after I was attacked. It was so hard sitting in a room with her, watching her assume this sweet-hearted, maternal persona. It never quite fit, if you ask me, and it stressed me the fuck out."

"That sort of defeats the purpose of therapy then, doesn't it?"

"Yeah." He finds himself relaxing a fraction and leans back in the red velvet armchair. "I never got much out of it."

"And yet you're here today."

He shrugs again, glancing out at the lush green trees spread throughout the park. "I've heard therapy works; you just have to find the right therapist."

The tapping speeds up. It's that Benny Goodman number, the one that Daphne did that dance recital to when they were little. He didn't care much for dance (at least, not the instructed kind), but Daphne still insisted on rehearsing with him and teaching him all the steps, count-by-count. They would learn the routines by heart, then create their own, which were completely and utterly ridiculous. It always ended up with the two of them in fits of laughter on the floor. God, but he misses Daphne, especially right now.

"Ann said you were interested in art," Jo comments.

"I'm an artist," he blurts out, somewhat defensively. That was another one of Ann's failings; she never seemed all that interested in his art. At times, she even seemed dismissive. Those were the days she stopped reminding Justin of his mother and started reminding him of his father. Ugh. He looks at Jo, wondering if she's showing any signs of resembling Craig Taylor, but she actually looks quite intrigued. "I've been doing it for years, but I moved to New York to pursue it more seriously. I had my first solo recently."

"Congratulations," Jo says, grinning at him. "That's amazing!"

_It is amazing,_ he thinks, grinning back at her. "I have another show coming up soon; a group one. I'll be working with other queer artists to create a collection of topical pieces. Political stuff, you know?"

"That sounds great." She writes something else down. "Have you considered including a piece about the bombing?"

Justin tenses up immediately. Jo shrugs apologetically. "Not the smoothest segue, I know, but we only have a couple of hours so we may as well cut to the chase."

Surprised, he echoes, "A couple of hours?" 

She nods. "I shuffled things around. When Ann called, she described what you experienced. It's serious stuff, Justin."

Wincing, he drops his elbows to his knees and clasps his hands together. On some level, he had hoped she would say something different - perhaps that it wasn't so bad, that it was to be expected, that she'd have him fixed in no time at all. That was only a small part of him, though - for the most part, Justin is painfully aware of how serious this is.

Jo leans in and gazes at him with a gentle sense of intrigue. "Seeing as you've gone down this route before, I'm going to spare you the standard Therapy 101 rundown. You know what this is about. I will tell you that I aim to create safe, supportive spaces which are goal-oriented. So let's begin there: do you feel safe here?"

"I guess," he says, scanning the room. There's something comforting about this space. More importantly, there's something comforting about her, naturally so. It takes him a moment, but eventually he manages to speak up and say, "I don't feel safe really at all right now, generally speaking, but here... here is good."

"Good," Jo repeats, writing more notes. "No pressure, but do you feel that I'm someone you could work with? Someone who could offer you support?"

"Yes," he replies, almost instantly. "I mean, I think so. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

Chuckling slightly, he warns, "I'm not exactly easy to deal with."

She laughs a little, adds something to her notes, then says, "You're the easiest patient I've had all week. The most serious, perhaps, in terms of what you're dealing with... but you're here, you're talking, you're open to this. That counts for a lot. So let's say that I am able to offer you the support you need: what do you want to get out of this? What's our goal?"

Justin wrings his hands together. His gaze follows two kites sailing above the treeline in the park; one's bright pink, the other yellow and blue. He feels like he's observing his polar opposite, given that every last part of him feels unbearably heavy. It's like he's sinking. He wants it to stop. He wants to feel like he did a scarce few weeks ago at the opening of his show, impossibly light with elation and thrilled beyond words. Or, at least, he wants to feel closer to that than to the wearying misery he feels right now.

"I want to get better," he admits quietly. "Can you help me with that?"

*

Two hours later, Justin leaves Jo's office with a slightly clearer head. She thinks she can help him and has a plan for how to move forward: therapy twice a week for the next month. After that, they'll reconvene and discuss what comes next. He can't deny that he needs it - he spent a good portion of their session reciting what happened at Babylon, and just voicing it made him feel sick with fear and sunken with anguish.

For now, he's been given one instruction, and one instruction only. Justin is quite relieved about that - he used to leave Ann's office with a list full of tasks, his so-called 'homework'. He seriously would have preferred actual homework to her insipid laundry lists of clichéd commands. Sometimes he'd play bingo with them, but winning always felt like a defeat. Blessedly, Jo is Ann's polar opposite. She has given him one, simple, unexpected instruction - to take the day for himself and take care of himself.

He asked her what she meant by that, making silent (and sour) predictions that she would advise him on predictable calming techniques right out of Ann's book. Instead, she smiled at him with genuine warmth and said, "Do anything that makes you happy. Find places, things, people that make you feel glad to be alive. Enjoy it."

So he does. Justin texts Brian quickly  _(I'll be home later this afternoon, love you)_ then switches off his phone. If he leaves it on, he's liable to receive a flood of texts throughout the day. It's been that way since he left Pittsburgh. There's almost constant contact from everyone; mostly his mom and Molly, a lot from Emmett, some from Michael with messages from Deb (although Justin suspects that won't be the case today, not after last night), and of course an avalanche from Daph. He can't quite deal with that right now, so off his phone goes. 

He fishes his iPod out of his pocket and jams his earbuds in, then blasts his music as loud as it will go. This leaves him almost entirely on his own; it's just him, his music, and the park. Justin traipses through it slowly, breathing in the crisp air and enjoying the light flickering across his face through the trees overhead.

Eventually, he finds a spot that's quiet, where there are no swarms of tourists, nor playgrounds full of chattering children, nor speeding cyclists or rampaging runners, or even any dog-walkers. It's an urban legend made real - a genuinely lonely spot in Central Park. Justin sits down and stares into space for a very long while, ensconced in this peaceful place with nothing but his music for company.

After a while, he refocuses and starts seeing things that inspire him. He's without his sketchpad, so he scans the scenery and tries to commit it to memory. He's used to doing this by now. Justin can't help but look at the world through his artistic lens, but he frequently finds himself without materials and has to make do by memorising what's in front of him. He's gotten especially good at it since Brian instituted a 'no sketching' rule in bed. He claimed the charcoal was fucking up the sheets, but Justin doesn't buy it. In fact, Justin strongly suspects that Brian was merely jealous of the attention being paid to the sketchpad. It's nonsensical, of course, given that Brian was the subject of all of the sketches, but the rule has its benefits. For one, there's more time for fucking, which Justin can hardly complain about. It's also forced him to develop an acute level of focus so that he can memorise things he wants to sketch later. A few nights ago, he put this into practice, watching intently as Brian blew him, memorising every last detail: the slick of sweat across Brian's forehead; the way his hair had fallen over his face, sticking damply to the sweat; the stretch of his soft lips around Justin's swollen, reddened cock; and his eyes, which would occasionally flick up to meet Justin's gaze, darkened with lust and blazing with heat. 

Justin shivers at the thought. He very nearly turns his phone back on, thinking he'll call Brian to say he's coming home and that Brian had better be ready and waiting in bed for him. But then he reconsiders. After all, he's supposed to take the day for himself. Plus, Brian is probably in dire need of a break from all of the melodrama. Justin stares at his phone in his hand, resists the urge to switch it back on, and tucks it deep inside his pocket. 

When a gaggle of tourists descend upon his spot, Justin picks himself up and makes his way out of the park. He finds the nearest subway station and waits for the B train to arrive. When it does, he jumps on board and lets it carry him all the way to Chinatown, enjoying the plunge into darkness and the way the train rattles down the tracks.   


Chinatown is busy and crazy noisy, but Justin navigates the crowds and slips down a quieter street. He finds 'their' restaurant - the one he's considered his and Brian's since he moved here, even before Brian had ever visited. It has always reminded Justin of home. Not Pittsburgh, necessarily, just the 'home' that existed between him and Brian, in the loft, on all those quiet nights when they'd stay in eating greasy Chinese food. Justin orders their favourite meal and a beer. He also asks the waitress for a pen, which is soon delivered along with the beer. 

The next few hours are spent in the same way he used to spend his days in New York, back when it was all brand new to him and he was still finding his bearings. Since this place felt like home and since it boasted peace and quiet and good, cheap food, he would hole up here for hours on end, eating and sketching, sketching and eating. He does the same today, focusing on following Jo's instruction. Filling up napkin after napkin with sketches, he draws places, things, and people that make him feel glad to be alive. After illustrating snapshots of New York and Pittsburgh, Justin starts on portraits. He begins with Brian, because who else makes him feel gladder to be alive? When he's perfected that one, he moves on to Daph, then Gus, and Mel and Linds, and Deb, and his mom and Molly, and all of the rest of the family. 

"Sorry," he says sheepishly to the waitress, who has come by with another drink and is currently eyeing the stack of napkins curiously.

"Don't worry about it," she shrugs. "Is that Bryant Park?"

"Yeah." Justin slides it across the table. "At Christmastime."

The waitress smiles. "It was my favourite place to go when I was a kid. I loved the lights. You've drawn it perfectly."

Justin notices the affection in her eyes as she gazes at the sketch. "Do you want it? You can have it."

She looks at him and lights up. "I'd love it."

He hands it to her and she tucks it safely in her pocket. As she's about to leave, she turns and eyeballs him. "You're still going to tip me, right?"

Justin laughs out loud. "Of course I'm going to tip you. Properly, with money. Not with art, I swear."

She grins and points her finger at him. "I'm going to hold you to that."

He grins back, then returns to sketching as she strides back into the kitchen.

When he's had his fill of lunch and his supply of napkins has run out, Justin decides to head home. He leaves a generous tip for the waitress then ducks out the door, heading determinedly back into the crowds of people. He's quite proud of himself for being able to walk through them without fear. This morning, on his way to his appointment, he struggled all the way up Fifth Avenue. Now he feels calmer, more together.

It's a short walk back to Soho, but he takes it slowly. It's almost evening and the light is fading gradually, shifting bit by bit from brightness into something softer. He thinks about what he told Jo this morning; it's true that he moved to New York to pursue art more seriously, but it's not why he stayed. He stayed for this, what he's in the midst of right now, the surrounding city. It made him fall head over heels in love for the second time in his life. It has a way of feeling familiar and fresh all at once. In the twenty minutes it takes him to get home, he finds inspiration over and over again, until his mind is crowded with ambition instead of anxiety. This is why he stayed. He thinks he'll tell Jo that at their next session. He'll also tell her it was well worth it.

*

The best part of his day is seeing the other reason he stayed: Brian, his first great love, who moved to New York for him, who wanted to continue their life together here. To see Brian waiting outside their building for him immediately brings a smile to Justin's face. He smiles even wider when Brian spots him; there's look of relief that dances over Brian's face that's just so comforting to see. After yesterday, Justin had worried he was burdening Brian with all of his angst. Now he's convinced that's not the case.

As soon as Justin is within arm's reach, he grabs Brian's shirt and drags him in for a kiss. Brian's arms wind tightly around his waist, pulling them flush to each other. Overwhelmed with relief, Justin sinks into the kiss, driving more intensity into it until he's breathless.

He breaks away but stays very close. Smiling up at Brian, he murmurs, "Hey."

Brian smiles back and presses a soft kiss to Justin's forehead. "Hey, yourself. How was it?"

"It was good," Justin says, pleased to realise he actually means it. "I'm going back on Wednesday."

"Good," Brian echoes, squeezing him affectionately. "So you feel okay?"

Justin nods, peppering kisses over Brian's collarbone. "I feel alright."

Not good, not great, not bad or awful, but just alright. That's something. That's enough for now.

"I have some news," Brian says, a trace of guilt lurking in his voice. "The munchers offered to visit with Gus."

"That's awesome! When?"

"Now." Brian smiles uneasily. "He's upstairs. They're off at some dykey fucking bookstore and they'll be out all night. I can take him out, if you want. If you need space, just say - I'll take him to the movies or a show or something."

"No," Justin says, shaking his head adamantly. "I want to see him! I'm so glad he's here."

"Really?"

Seeing the doubt in Brian's eyes and hearing it doubly in his tone, Justin laughs a little. He kisses Brian again and stresses,  _"Really._ I love Gus, seeing him would make my day."

Brian smiles, clearly relieved, and wraps Justin up in a hug. Justin closes his eyes and immerses himself in Brian's closeness. Feeling himself grow lighter bit by bit, he whispers, "I love you."

"I love you, too," Brian murmurs, squeezing Justin tighter. "I love you so fucking much."

"Mmmm," Justin hums, feeling flooded with happiness. "Let's go upstairs, hey?"

Brian nods and steps back, grabbing Justin's hand firmly. They head upstairs silently, but it's a pleasant silence now, instead of the ugly one that plagued them last night. Justin loathes to think of it - how utterly miserable he was, and how obviously distressed he was making Brian. He vows to steer well clear of that tonight.

As soon as they're through the door, Gus is on top of him. Justin finds himself with an armful of Gus, who squawks happily,  _"Jus!"_

"Hey Gussy," Justin laughs, hugging Gus very close. "I'm so glad you're here."

Gus squeezes him back twice as hard and whispers, "Moms and daddy told me that you were sad."

"Yeah," Justin whispers, feeling slightly embarrassed. There's also a quick stab of guilt; burdening Brian is one thing, but burdening Gus? He doesn't know if he can forgive himself for that.

But then again, Gus doesn't seem burdened. Pulling back to face Justin with a winning smile, Gus announces, "I'm gonna make you feel a billion times better, okay?"

"Okay," Justin says, nodding happily.

On that note, Gus launches back out of Justin's embrace and goes running into the kitchen. "C'mere! Both of you!"

"He's got this whole big thing planned," Brian explains as they follow Gus. 

"It's called cheer-up brigade," Gus explains, patting the stool next to the one he's climbed on top of. "Mommy and I invented it when daddy was being sad."

Eyeing Brian curiously, Justin sits down next to Gus. "When was your daddy being sad?"

"When he still lived in Pittsburgh and you were here on your own," Gus explains matter-of-factly. "He visited us in Toronto and he was very sad and moody, so mommy and I invented cheer-up brigade. Except, it was a secret then, because mommy said daddy couldn't know we were trying to cheer him up. So we played covert ops and kept it top secret. It was fun."

Noticing the faint blush creeping up Brian's face, Justin bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. 

"Is that so?" Brian asks flatly, looking decidedly unimpressed. "I think I'm going to have to have a talk with your mommy."

Gus ignores this in favour of handing Justin a large folded piece of paper. "This is for you."

"Thanks," Justin says, opening it carefully. He immediately falls madly in love with it. "Gussy, it's gorgeous!"

Beaming, Gus explains, "This is you and daddy and me."

Justin grins and holds up the drawing so Brian can see. "Note the hearts in your eyes."

"Note this," Brian grumbles, flipping Justin off subtly, so Gus doesn't pick up on it.

Gus stabs at the drawing. "I drew the sun, too, nice and big. Because daddy calls you Sunshine."

Grinning even wider, Justin traces his finger around the outline of the blindingly yellow sun. Suddenly, Brian reaches across and touches the corner of his mouth, then traces the curve of Justin's smile with his fingertip. Very softly, he comments, "And that's why."

This tiny gesture sends a wave of affection sweeping through Justin. He grabs Brian's hand and kisses it, first on the back, then across the knuckles, and finally in the heart of the palm. Gus nods and jumps from his seat into Justin's lap. "It's okay to be sad though, Jus. Everyone gets sad."

"It happens to the best of us," Brian adds. Eyeing Justin meaningfully, he says softly, "And you are the best of us."

Before Justin can dispute this, Gus huffs and rolls his eyes. "You are too, daddy. Stop being a goof."

"Yeah, Bri," Justin teases, grinning mischievously at him. "Stop being such a goof."

As Gus giggles and giggles, shaking in Justin's arms, Brian rolls his eyes and suggests, "Sonny Boy, why don't you tell Sunshine what you have planned?"

After getting over his fit of giggles, Gus straightens up and announces what their cheer-up brigade entails. There's endless ideas, including a movie night, pizza, dessert, and lots of drawing. Justin finds himself feeling better and better. He eases into it, letting Gus and Brian lead the way. They make a perfect team, the two of them. As they settle in for movie night, Brian pulls Justin into his arms and holds him close, while Gus takes up residence in Justin's lap. Justin burrows deeper into Brian's embrace and hugs Gus nice and close, thinking how lucky he is to be a part of all of this. There's still a knot in his throat and a sense of fatigue plaguing him, but for the most part, Justin feels freer. He focuses on how good it feels to have Brian and Gus so close and finds his anxieties shifting off to the side.

Much later that night, after dinner, after dessert, during the third movie, Gus falls asleep in Justin's arms. Justin feels about ready to drop off to sleep as well. He feels Brian's lips pressing against the back of his neck in a very gentle kiss and closes his eyes. This is where he feels the safest. This is where he feels most supported. This is where he feels truly glad to be alive. He still has miles to go, but right now, that doesn't seem so daunting. He thinks he can face it. In fact, he's kind of looking forward to it. Right as he's on the cusp of drifting off, Justin thinks to himself, _Maybe I'm closer than I'd thought. Maybe it's not so far away after all._

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! I may follow this up with another piece focusing more intently on Justin's therapy and how he makes progress, but for now I wanted to leave this piece on a more open-ended note. I see him dealing with this and the bashing over an extended period of time, so I didn't want to resolve it all in one go.
> 
> As always, I would love to hear your thoughts :) Feedback is very much appreciated!


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